Diary of a Dead Person
by justkissmeidiot
Summary: In which Gillian Beilschmidt documents the final days of her life. Rated for mature themes, full warnings inside.
1. kapitel eins

A/N :: This is based off of a journal I myself have written, and **some of the entries are just slightly edited versions of my own**. While I usually appreciate constructive criticism, **I ask that no remarks about grammar or diction are made for this story**. There may or may not be hints of pairings—you might **fem!Prussia x Canada, France x fem!England, AusHun, GerIta, and Spain x fem!Romano.**

This is the journal of fem!Prussia—or Gillian Beilschmidt as she is known in the story—and takes place in **a modern AU setting.**

Also note that some entries will be _**extremely**__ short, _for this reason, there may be more than one entry per chapter.

This will be the only author's note I will be writing for this particular story.

Warnings include: **strong suicidal themes, eating disorders, self-harm, and strong language.**

As usual, the only thing I can take credit for is the way the words are arranged, _ergo_, **I disclaim all characters and the Hetalia series.**

* * *

_This Journal is written for anyone who cares to be read after I'm gone._

_After you read it (if you read it) do whatever the hell you want with it.  
Wipe your ass with it, burn it, bury it, I don't give a fuck._

_Gillian Beilschmidt._

* * *

**11 APRIL, 2012. 4:06 P.M.**

Wow this is really weird.

This journal is a … document of sorts.

HAHA DOCUMENT NO HOW ABOUT NO THAT IS WAY TOO SERIOUS AND OFFICIAL SOUNDING AND DO I LOOK LIKE LUDWIG TO YOU? NO JUST NO

Well, whatever. Let's just get to the point, ja?

You see this is a bit of a journal that I'm leaving behind for all of you—and not just any journal; it's to document my last several days.

Because, hopefully- if I am not a coward, that is (but really, I _am _a coward, so I suppose you could instead say "if I am brave enough"),- I would be dead by now.

Wow, that was kind of a bombshell, wasn't it? Haha, well, subtlety has never been my strongest trait.

I beg of you, please do not be upset or sad about this. I don't want that. I want you all to rejoice! "She's dead! Hallelujah! No longer will she pester us and ruin our days with her existence!" Something like that. Haha. Please, even if you can't do that, at the very least smile for me.

Do not be sad, for I am glad to go.

I promised myself I wouldn't rant about how shitty my life was, but then, I promised I wouldn't kill myself, too, and look where we are now. Since I, apparently, can't keep a promise, feel free to skip the following section:

I can't breathe—this is an ailment both physical and mental. Physical because I have been problems with my breathing for some time now, a problem the doctors have no explanation for (but only because they are unwilling to really help – "she's faking it," they say "she just wants attention and to get out of school.") I can't fucking breathe and it _physically hurts _to try. There is a constant pressure in my chest, and every time my heart beats, the ache grows stronger. My inability to breathe is partially mental/emotional/whatever, as well. I am drowning, you see? I am drowning in stress and anger and the tears I've cried and sadness and hatred—from both myself and others. How could anyone possibly ask me to live through all of this? People say "don't do this, it's cruel and selfish what you're doing" but isn't it "cruel and selfish" of _you _to demand that I fight every second of every day to live when I have no desire to, when I would be _happier _dead? "You'll regret it" is what I hear often as well, but what is there to regret? If I am dead, I am dead. I will be nothing but a memory, incapable of feeling anything, much less "regret."

As I said much earlier, though, I am a coward. There is a mere fifty percent chance that I will do this to myself. I need to tell you, though, _all of you_, how I feel—how _hard _it is for me to live. Every day is a battle, and every battle is just a part of the war that is my life—a war I am losing. The most pitiful part is, I am fighting none other than myself.

I don't know what good _telling _all of you would do me. I suppose it's nice to get it off my chest. Even if I'm such a coward that I can't do this, well, I don't know. Stress relief, I suppose?

Or, perhaps, this is more a method to ensure that I _do _do this. Because how ridiculous would it be if, after all the work I'm putting into this journal, I don't off myself?

Oh, how depressing this has gotten! I assure you, this was not my intent. I want this to be as lighthearted as possible.

Remember me not as a depressing person who felt nothing but sadness, but please, remember me as a joyful person who did her best to smile through her pain.

Because I did. Every single day, I smiled. I didn't want you all to know how upset I was.

But every single day, I also cried. You see? It isn't enough just to smile. It really isn't.

You can't just say "smile and be happy!" it doesn't work that way.

Aw hell, it's getting depressing again. Fuck.

Ah well.

This is a bit of an odd request to make here, but can you guys leave all of my belongings in my room? I know I'm going to be gone, but I feel like if there's nothing there, it will be as though I've never even lived …

Which means, no, you can't have any of my shit. Get your own.

So, while I cannot really give any of you anything physical or tangible, I leave behind, instead, my love, for I strongly believe there has rarely been a love so strong as the one I feel for all of you. (LOL I sound like a pansy haha)

Thank you to all of you for being with me all this time and I'm very sorry for everything.

Love, always and forever,

Gillian.

PS – please take good care of Gilbird.


	2. kapitel zwei

**12 APRIL, 2012. 10:35 P.M.**

I don't think anybody realizes how unhappy I am.

Mother thinks it's a joke. Or a phase. Maybe both. "You're just growing up! It's a part of being a teenager."

She doesn't understand.

She never will.

I don't think _anyone _will.

How can anybody possibly understand what I feel?

I hate everything—including myself, no matter how "awesome" I claim to be. I have so few passions in life.

Father yelled at me today for not eating. I'm not hungry though. Being hungry means eating and eating means being fat and _I don't want to be fat anymore._

I wish I was thin. I wish I was pretty. I wish I was smart and popular and funny and witty.

Maybe then people would like me.

Maybe then I would like myself.

Ah, but that doesn't really matter anymore, does it?

Fuck.

* * *

**13 APRIL, 2012. 6:47 P.M.**

I just got home from work. I was supposed to stay until 8:00, but the manager sent me home because "you don't look well at all, Gillian, and you aren't doing _anything _right, which is unlike you."

Well, that's a lie, right there, Mr. Manager, sir, because I _never _do anything right. Ha_ha!_

I have a text in my phone from Mattie that I haven't even opened yet. I received it at 3:55, I guess? I didn't actually notice that I had the message until I was on my way to work, though.

I'm afraid to open it.

I mean, I'm going to die soon, right? I shouldn't attach myself further to the living.  
And, in the long run, it would hurt Mattie more, right?  
I don't want that.  
I don't want him to be hurt.

So I shouldn't open it and I most certainly should _not _reply.

…

Oh fuck, I'm so weak.

I'm sorry, Matthew, the least I could do for you is pretend to be happy.

* * *

**13 APRIL, 2012. 9:47 P.M.**

God knows why, but I decided to do my homework.

I suppose, in the last week in my life, I could at least _pretend _to care.

Fuck, I've been missing a lot of days of school, though. I don't understand _any _of this shit. I have a math test tomorrow and I am going to fail.

… But really, it doesn't matter if I fail now, right? Haha.

In many ways, it's kind of a big relief.


End file.
